


One Deed More

by Drag0nst0rm



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix-It, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Maglor just doesn't care anymore, Suicidal Thoughts, or more accurately
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 11:09:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16366739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0nst0rm/pseuds/Drag0nst0rm
Summary: Maglor hasn't interfered with others' affairs for a long time, but surely not even he can do much harm on a rescue mission.After all, what does he have left to lose?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own the Silmarillion.

The rain drove him from the coast eventually.

Storms Maglor might have been willing to put up with. Proper, raging storms would have suited him nicely. A constant drizzle of miserable rain, however, he could only put up with for so long. He wandered inland in the hopes of getting out of the rain, and, after that, there was simply no reason to stop.

He stayed away from the roads and from anywhere that looked too appealing, reasoning that others might have made their way there. He chose harder paths for himself, a decision that eventually led him in the direction of the mountains.

Every so often, he would run into someone. He would lurk around their camp for the sake of company and listen to what news he could, but it happened rarely enough, and he was never sure what news he could trust.

At long last, he came to the mountain pass, and he meant to hurry on. It was too likely that he would meet travelers here.

He did run into travelers. Of a sort.

Personally, Maglor was reluctant to give so benign a title to orcs. Especially when those orcs were so busy toying with a prisoner.

There were too many of them to fight head on. His sword was in good condition - of course it was, it had been made by his father, it could take far more damage than Maglor had put it through - but it was still only one sword. His voice could do more, but he would prefer not to put it so directly to the test …

It was only then that he realized what he was doing. What automatic assumption he had made.

He was not, he reminded himself, a hero. No one expected him to go charging in to single handedly save the elleth being tormented by the orcs.

She cried out as a bone snapped, and all thoughts of hero or villain fled his mind.

He had not been able to save his brother; perhaps he could save her. If he failed and died, little would be lost.

Not in a stupidly glorious charge. They had learned that lesson long ago. Instead, he settled deep into the shadows and waited for the night to fade to the grey of dawn.

The hours dragged on. He forced himself to watch and listen, even though it made the wait that much more unbearable.

When the sun began to peek through the mountains, he started a low song. Nothing much. Just something to lure the orcs quickly into sleep. Softly, now. Gently. No need for alarm …

When all that was left awake was one weary sentry, it was a simple matter to slit his throat.

Music didn’t discriminate. The elleth was asleep too, but that was all to the good. There was less chance she would cry out in startlement.

He sawed through the ropes holding her quickly enough and was thankful her captors had lacked chains.

He could simply stab all the orcs in their sleep, he supposed, but his trust in his song was not that great.

Once, perhaps, but now …

Best not to risk it.

He kept humming it though. He had to, if there was any chance of getting them out alive. He had to carry her, of course, but even though she was thinner than she had probably been before her capture, Maglor was hardly well fed himself. He staggered under even her slight weight, but there were no other options. He adjusted her weight, gritted her teeth, and went on.

He went as far as he could. When he could go no further, he collapsed to his knees and laid her down gently on the moss covered roots of an ancient tree. There was little cover around them. This was the best he could do.

It was only then that he realized she was awake and staring up at him with wide eyes.

“Hello,” he said as gently as he could remember how. He tried to smile. Judging by her flinch he hadn’t managed it right.

Normally, this was where an introduction would go, but he hardly thought that would be comforting to her under the circumstances.

“We’ve a decent lead on them now,” he said instead. “We should be safe.” He wasn’t sure if he actually believed that, but he hoped she could.

It was at that moment that he realized he had no idea where he should be going. He had heard elvish travelers mention various settlements in passing, but he had no idea where those settlements actually were.

Nor did he have any idea how he could get her there without being seen himself, but - Well, if he was seen, there was once again not much lost. Probably Mandos would not hold anyone guilty for slaying him.

“I don’t suppose you know a safe direction to head in?” he asked lightly.

“Imladris,” she finally said in a hoarse whisper. “I was going - They’ll be expecting me in Imladris.”

Her voice shook and cracked, and he cursed his own stupidity. “Your pardon, lady,” he said, and he hastened to offer her water from the skin he had hanging on his belt.

She took it with shaking hands - and they weren’t just shaking, at least two of her fingers were surely broken.

“I’m doing this all wrong,” he realized. He had been on his own with no hurts but his own to consider for far too long. “I am no healer, but if you will allow me, I will do what I can before we move on.” He tried the smile again. She didn’t flinch that time, so perhaps it had improved.

He sang as he worked, both to encourage healing and to try to set her more at ease.

The healing worked, at least to an extent. The ease … .

“I have never heard a voice like yours,” she said. “Not even in Imaldris.”

It did not sound like a compliment.

He hoped dearly that she was not old enough to associate a strong voice with Maglor Feanorian. Surely other bards had surpassed him since.

Failing that, maybe she would at least mistake him for the other lost bard of the elves, who, if no saint, was at least less terrifying.

“Speaking of Imladris,” he said, “which way should we be heading for it?” He dearly hoped the answer wasn’t over the mountains. For one thing, they had no supplies for a journey of that magnitude. For another, the orcs were between them and the pass, and they had been going the wrong way all day.

She pushed herself back against the tree despite the movement the pain must have caused her. “What elf does not know the way to Imladris?”

By her expression, the answer was clearly not anyone who could be trusted.

“One who has come from far away?” he tried.

But she was clearly lost in memory, shaking her head frantically. “I will not tell you, I will not, you will never find it, never - ”

He struggled to remember the songs that had once soothed Maedhros when he was caught up in memories of his own questioning. He sang the first notes that came to mind, desperately trying to soothe her.

“Peace, lady, peace,” he said quietly as she at last calmed. “I mean no harm.”

She stared at him with equal desperation. “I - ” She paused, clearly at war with herself, practicality battling well earned paranoia. “Swear to me,” she finally said, voice still hoarse from pain. “Swear to me that you mean neither Imladris nor anyone in it harm.”

Maglor reared back.

It … was not an unreasonable request. It was not her fault that it went against every instinct he had left.

But he was once forsworn already, and surely there was nothing worse than Everlasting Darkness. What harm could an Oath to do no harm cause? At the worst, it would leave him unable to defend himself, and he’d already decided there was no great evil in that.

“I swear by the unreachable stars that I mean no harm to you or yours,” he said and tried not to shudder as the unthinkable words of an oath fell from his mouth.

But she relaxed and told him how to reach their haven from here.

It was still some distance away, he realized grimly. If the orcs tracked them, it might go ill.

But they would try. They would have to try. He had fought far more impossible odds.

“Forward then,” he said with forced cheer. He doubted the facade was very good, but she was in no condition to be particularly discerning. “If I may?”

She allowed him to pick her up without protest, though she winced in pain at the motion. Still, it was easier with her hands now able to latch around his neck.

“Might I ask who I am sworn to?” he asked. Knowing his luck, she would turn out to be - Oh, Sauron’s secret half-Maia child or some such. Improbable, admittedly, but not altogether impossible.

“I am called Celebrian,” she said quietly. She offered no further detail, either because she felt her family something best kept hidden or because she expected the name to be enough. Judging by what must have once been very fine clothes, it was quite possibly the latter.

The name, however, meant nothing to him. “A lovely name,” he said as he walked forward and tried to convince himself that his muscles didn’t burn. “These days I am afraid I am only rarely called anything, and even more rarely anything fit for polite company, so you may call me what you wish.”

He half hoped she would call him something, just so he could have a hint as to if she had guessed his true identity, but when he looked down at her continued silence, it was to see that she was once more asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Maglor couldn’t quite believe that they were not yet dead.

Evading orcs in non-ideal territory while carrying a wounded companion he didn’t have enough supplies to fully help was … Well, not actually the most perilous situation he’d ever been in, but it might actually make the top ten. At least throughout most of the First Age he’d had somewhere safe to retreat to. Now he had just had an elvish settlement that hopefully wouldn’t shoot him on sight, and the directions to which he hopefully had right.

Celebrian’s fever had grown too great for him to check.

An encounter with an orc scout had left him with a wound in his shoulder that was festering badly, making it both more difficult to carry her and less likely that he could survive merely dropping her off and making a run for it. He was going to have to hope that they would fail to recognize him long enough for him to get treatment.

He was increasingly certain that he wasn’t actually going to survive this, but it would be a better death than anyone in the family since Father had gotten, so he was alright with that. Dying of a wound from the Enemy while doing the right thing seemed an excellent way to go.

At least, he thought he would be the first since Father to go that way. It was possible Celebrimbor had gone out that way, but he was hoping his nephew was still alive somewhere. Maybe he had taken up residence at this Imladris.

He took a moment to let himself fondly imagine that the elleth in his arms was actually his nephew’s … Not daughter, he would have felt that. Wife, then. His nephew would be grateful then, surely. Perhaps even grateful enough to forgive his last living uncle?

It was a foolish daydream, but he clung to it anyway.

He had to cling to something if he was going to keep moving through the pain.

An orc horn blew in the distance behind him. He cursed the growing shadows and tried to move faster.

In the absence of hope, fear would have to do.

 

There was a gate. That was significant, wasn’t it? Gates were important.

It was open, but he found he couldn’t go a single step further. A distant voice in his mind warned him it might be dangerous, and he was so tired. Far easier just to fall to his knees and to finally lay the lady down. Then he could get up and - And -

Well, he could get up later then.

There was shouting. Lots of shouting. Running, too. That probably wasn’t good. He should do something.

He looked up wearily at the elves surrounding them. Guards, he thought blearily. You had to tell guards things if you wanted to get past the gates, didn’t you?

“She’s expected,” he tried to say. He realized too late that he’d said it in Quenya, and he switched to Sindarin quickly. “She’s expected,” he repeated. Celebrian, at least, had the right to be there. “I … ” What could he say of himself?

What was there to say? He had failed his father, failed his brothers, failed his people … He had not failed her, he didn’t think. He hoped not, at least, but he probably had. He’d failed everyone else.

“I’m sorry,” he settled on. That seemed like it would cover just about everything.

And if it didn’t, they were just going to have to wait. Maglor slid the rest of the way to the ground and let his eyes drift shut.

He had gotten them to Imladris. It was someone else’s turn to walk.

 

He was pleasantly surprised to wake up in what he identified after a startled moment as a proper bed. The sheets were clean and cool, and for a moment he could almost imagine himself back in Aman.

But the now much fainter ache of his wound dispelled that illusion quickly, so he went ahead and opened his eyes to figure out where, exactly, he was.

Sunlight streamed in through an elegantly arched window and illuminated a meticulously clean room bisected by a curtain. In his half, there was a table burdened with a roll of bandages, a vial he suspected contained some form of medicine, and a pitcher with glasses that he dearly hoped contained water. A chair waited on the side closest to the curtain, and to his surprise, there was still an indent in the cushion. Someone had been sitting there recently. A guard, perhaps? Or a healer?

Surely, despite his daydreams, there was no one he knew here. Or at least no one who remembered him fondly and would admit it to it. Artanis could be here, he supposed. She could have come to take a look.

He pushed himself up with a grimace and reached for the water pitcher. The movement irritated his wound, and he was forced to set it down again quickly. The pitcher thudded into the wood of the table.

There was the sound of hasty footsteps on the other side of the curtain. Maglor abandoned the pitcher and sat up as straight as he could.

The window was wide enough to fit through. He didn’t have any memory of towers, although admittedly his memory of the gate was somewhat fragmentary. Still, they probably weren’t very high up …

Then an elf pushed the curtain back, and all thoughts of improbable escapes through the window fled his mind.

That wasn’t just any elf.

That was Elrond.

He stared, drinking the image in. He looked well. Better than Maglor had dared to imagine. There were shadows under his eyes, but Maglor could easily imagine the stress he must have been under since his kinslaying foster-father showed up at his gates with a survivor of orcish hospitality. He was well dressed, though, and not obviously scarred, and if he was alright, surely Elros must be too -

“Ada,” Elrond breathed, “you’re awake,” and suddenly Maglor had an armful of sobbing elfling.

No, not elfling. Elrond was full grown now. More than. But that didn’t change the fact that he was obviously overwhelmed, and Maglor automatically started singing one of the soothing songs he’d first used on heartbroken younger siblings and perfected on a grieving set of twins.

It felt good, impossibly good, far, far better than he deserved, to have Elrond safely in his arms once more. To be able to sing his tears away and pretend for that moment that it was enough.

But Elrond was a grown elf-lord now, and he could no longer drift off to sleep in Maglor’s arms when he had exhausted himself with tears. All too soon, he let go, and Maglor reluctantly let him, although judging by how close Elrond sat to him on the bed, instead of, say, claiming the chair, Elrond was equally reluctant to let him go completely.

“I thought you were dead,” Elrond said. “No one had seen you in so long.”

“Not dead,” Maglor said ruefully. “Just … avoiding trouble. Right up until I couldn’t ignore it anymore, at least. How is she? Celebrian?”

“She’ll recover,” Elrond assured him. “Fully, I think, though we might not have been so lucky if they had held her for any longer. She woke up before you, actually, though she’s sleeping again now.” He nodded at the curtain which Maglor suddenly realized must hide another bed.

Still the dedicated healer then. Maglor could easily see Elrond hating to leave either of his patients alone for a moment longer than was necessary.

“Do you happen to know who her family is?” Maglor asked. Surely he would. “I’m afraid she wouldn’t tell me how to find this place until I swore I meant no harm to her and hers, and I’m sure you can understand why I would be concerned about the particulars of any oath … ” He trailed off as he saw the expression on Elrond’s face.

“You didn’t know,” Elrond said in a slightly stunned voice.

“Know what?” Maglor felt the first pang of panic hit. What horrible relations did Celebrian have?

Not that he could judge, he supposed, but still.

Elrond swallowed. “She’s Galadriel’s daughter,” he began, somewhat cautiously, Maglor thought.

“With Celeborn?” Maglor checked. He relaxed at Elrond’s nod. “Well, I wouldn’t swear that Artanis meant me no harm, but I certainly have no grudge against her,” he said cheerily. “And while I’m quite certain Celeborn has at least something of a grudge, perhaps he’ll forgive me now. And if not, I can always duck.”

“And my wife,” Elrond said.

That took a moment to sink in. “Truly?” No wonder Elrond looked tired. Maglor could only imagine what he must have felt as he waited and waited for her to come back, only for her to show up terribly wounded.

“Our sons are out looking for her,” Elrond continued. “I sent messengers after them to bring them the good news.” He smiled tiredly. “Twins,” he said. “Elladan and Elrohir.”

“You know, in Aman, twins were considered excessively rare,” Maglor told him. “A fact which your line apparently continues to ignore.”

Elrond’s tired smile broadened into something a little closer to the boyish grin Maglor remembered. “We have a daughter too. Arwen. She’s sitting with her mother now, but she’s quite eager to meet you.”

Maglor was not entirely sure how to take that and so moved past it quickly. “And Elros? How is he doing?”

Elrond’s face fell. “Elros … Elros chose mortality.”

“Oh,” Maglor said blankly. “Oh.”

He was gone. Elros was gone.

“His line lives on,” Elrond said, apparently determined not to think on it more than he had to. He hesitated before asking a question of his own. “Maedhros?”

It was a fair question, but Maglor still flinched. “When the Silmarils burned us, he took his and - ” He’d never actually had to tell anyone this before. “He - jumped. Into the fire.”

The scar tissue in his hand screamed at the memory, and he looked down at it to remind himself that the wound was no longer fresh. Maedhros was no longer just beyond his reach in the fire below. The Silmarils were gone.

Everything was gone.

Elrond’s hand was suddenly on his, turning it over to examine the scar. His cool touch eased the phantom fire far better than Maglor’s scattered thoughts.

“I’m sorry,” Elrond said quietly.

Maglor shook his head. “I’m fairly certain that’s my line.”

“I should have been there,” he said, mouth twisting.

“No,” Maglor said firmly. “There was nothing you could have done.” It was his turn to hesitate now. “Celebrimbor?”

Elrond’s face fell even further.

Maglor’s throat clenched. It took him a few moments to remember how to breathe.

“Facing the Enemy?” he asked desperately. Or the remnants of his forces, at least.

Please, let Celebrimbor have escaped their curse at least that much.

“Defying Sauron to the end,” Elrond said.

Given the way he said it, Maglor wasn’t sure he wanted to know the details.

“Well,” he finally said hoarsely, “this has been a cheerful reunion.”

“You’re here,” Elrond said firmly. “You’re here, and you’ve brought Celebrian back to me. That’s more than enough.”

“At least until an angry mob shows up at the door … How long will I have until that happens, do you think?”

“Indefinitely,” Elrond said, tone still brooking no argument. “And if someone does take issue with your presence, I’ll deal with it. You have nothing to worry about save healing.” Tentative footsteps could be heard from the other side of the curtain, and Elrond’s smile returned. “And possibly Arwen’s questions.”


End file.
